


Yes, We Have No Bananas

by dark_roast



Category: Dollhouse, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_roast/pseuds/dark_roast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rated R for one swear word.<br/>Spoilers for SG-1 "Absolute Power" (4x17), and a small but important spoiler for "Dollhouse."</p><p>Written for Apocalyptothon, 2009.<br/>After taking over the world, Daniel Jackson meets his match. A very AU universe taking off from "Absolute Power."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes, We Have No Bananas

Sam Carter expected something different from the Dollhouse. For one thing, she was surprised to find it still standing.

The orbiting AG-3s were built as an Anti-Goa'uld defense network, but swiftly transformed into an Anti-Threats-Against-Daniel-Jackson defense network. The things Daniel Jackson considered a threat were many and varied. Most of Los Angeles lay in ruins, but the Dollhouse had stayed safe underground. Literally and figuratively.

Sam expected the Dollhouse to be cheerless and industrial, with the Actives kept confined in cells. The Dollhouse was all polished wood, the entryway opening into a soaring foyer with soft, hidden lighting and carefully maintained greenery. A group of Actives were doing Tai Chi in the center of the foyer. Sam stopped to watch.

_Perhaps,_ she thought, _you expected a prison because that's where you've been for the past eight years._

Oh, she'd been doing the right thing, trying to stop Daniel from bringing the AG-3s online. She should have kept her mouth shut. She should have known better. All her possibilities, her entire life; her research, her career, her friends and SG-1... all gone in a snap of Daniel's fingers.

He didn't even bother looking for her after she broke out of prison. In Sam's darker moments (which were many), she was positive Daniel had let her go. She wasn't relevant any longer. Teal'c was gone, and Jack was gone. Both of them were almost certainly dead. No one could get close to Daniel.

"Good day," said a soft voice behind her.

Sam jumped, swinging around.

"I'm sorry," said the young woman. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She was one of the Actives. Obviously. Long dark hair and big, dark eyes. Dressed in soft, loose cotton clothing. Her feet were bare. There was an open, peaceful expression on her lovely face. Not a care in the world, this one. Sam felt a sudden sharp stab of envy. She'd been innocent once. And pretty. She'd resented her looks because they got in her way. The cliché was a cliché for a reason. You never know how much you miss something until it's gone.

"It's all right," Sam said. "Hi. I'm Sam."

"I'm Whiskey," replied the Active. "Are you new here?"

"I guess you could say that. I'm a new handler."

Whiskey frowned. "I already have a handler."

"Well, I'm looking for one of your friends. Could you tell me where Yankee is?"

Whiskey brightened. "Of course." She turned and pointed behind her, deeper into the Dollhouse, where soft, deep couches were set along the far wall. "He's wearing a blue shirt."

"Thank you, Whiskey."

"You're welcome. I'm going to go for a swim now."

"Enjoy yourself."

"I like swimming. It was nice to meet you." Whiskey headed down a side corridor walled in frosted glass.

Sam walked over to the couches, where two of the Actives were sitting. One of them, a blond girl with high cheekbones and almond eyes, was reading a book. Yankee had his head down, concentrating on a drawing. Upside down, Sam couldn't see what it was.

Yankee sensed Sam watching, and lifted his head. The change in Cameron Mitchell's face was extraordinary. Not just the cuts and bruises were gone, but also the bitter hardness. Topher Brink's work really was astonishing.

"Hello," said Yankee. "Who are you?"

"My name is Sam."

"You're a girl."

Sam smiled. "Sam is short for Samantha."

Yankee thought this over for a moment. "Oh," he said. "I'm Yankee."

"Hello, Yankee." Sam sat down next to him. "What are you drawing?"

"Something I dreamed."

Yankee put down his red pencil, and handed Sam the drawing pad. He was about as good at drawing as Sam herself, which was to say, not very. Nonetheless, it was clear what was going on.

He'd drawn a man falling through the sky, arms and legs outstretched, eyes wide and his mouth a dark circle of terror. He wore a harness, and a parachute billowed behind him. it was an abstract swoop, crossed by blue lines. It looked more like crumpled wings. Sam realized that was because it hadn't fully deployed. Around the falling figure, the small black shapes of what had to be planes dotted the sky.

Cameron Mitchell's plane had been shot down three years ago in the Battle of Kansas. America's last bid for independence, mercilessly crushed by Daniel and his AG-3s.

Sam was still surprised that Mitchell agreed to sign five years of his away. But, having both your legs crushed when your plane crashed in a cornfield, and being told you were never going to walk again... that would certainly change a soldier's opinion about what to do with his life. Especially when fighting seemed pointless.

"Do you dream about falling a lot?" Sam asked Yankee.

"Sometimes," the Active replied. "It makes me sad."

"It's a scary dream," Sam agreed. "May I borrow this?"

"Are you going to show it to Dr. Saunders?"

"Do you think I should?"

Very carefully, Yankee tore the sheet from his pad, and handed it to her. "It's only a dream. You can keep it."

"Thank you," Sam said, as she stood up. "It was very nice to meet you, Yankee."

"Nice to meet you too, Sam."

***

Sam brought the drawing to Topher and DeWitt. DeWitt studied it, frowning, and then she passed it to Topher.

"Iiiinteresting..." Topher said. "Sometimes a memory scrub doesn't scrub everything. You get a bleed-through from past memories."

"Like a palimpsest," said Sam.

Topher stared at her.

Sam explained, "A manuscript that's been scraped clean so it can be used again. You can see a faint impression of what came before."

"Sure," Topher said.

"Colonel Mitchell didn't eject from his plane," Sam said. "He couldn't. The ejector system failed, and he crashed."

DeWitt said, "Perhaps this represents something Mitchell saw during the battle. Some other pilot."

"Maybe," Sam said.

Topher shrugged. "Occam's Razor, right?"

DeWitt said, "This shouldn't cause you concern. When we implant the revised Cameron Mitchell personality, he'll believe his recovery was a medical miracle. They do sometimes occur. If he continues to have these dreams, he'll believe they're a natural part of his past." She handed the drawing back to Sam. "I'm more concerned about the... how shall I put this... less conventional aspects of this Active."

"The nested program will hold," Sam said. "It has to."

Topher ran a hand through his floppy blond hair, and glanced at Sam, almost shyly. "You're brilliant, Dr. Carter --"

"Thank you," said Sam, before he could get to the "but."

"I have no doubt you are," said DeWitt, "but I'm uncomfortable having an Active with such a complex imprint."

Sam said, "Are you more comfortable living under constant threat?"

DeWitt raised her eyebrows. "Have you considered that perhaps the past eight years may have altered your perspective?"

"Don't you dare say that to me," Sam snapped. "Not when you've been living safe and sound here with your dolls, while the rest of us have to scrape and fight every day to survive."

DeWitt's cool expression didn't flicker. "Everything you've planned could go wrong. Quite easily."

"Leaving us where?" Sam said. "Exactly where we are now."

Sam heard the edge of desperation in her voice, and she took a deep breath. DeWitt was more right than she knew. Eight years had _altered_ Sam Carter, all right. She knew the nested imprints wouldn't hold for very long. They only had to hold long enough.

Sam said forcing herself to be calm, "We have everything to gain. Our freedom. Our lives. Our world."

"We could lose the Active," Topher pointed out.

Sam pressed her lips together. Of course Topher would be concerned about his masterpiece.

DeWitt leaned one hip on the edge of her desk. "Acceptable losses? Is that what you're about to say, Dr. Carter?"

"It's what Colonel Mitchell said to me, when he agreed to this mission. One soldier, in exchange for everything we've lost. It's a small price to pay."

"But, this... _thing_ you discovered in Area 51," Dewitt persisted. "This secret weapon of yours --"

"Let me worry about that."

DeWitt laughed softly. "This may come as a surprise to you, Dr. Carter, but I don't trust scientists."

"No surprise there," Sam replied. "There's a scientist ruling the world at the moment, in case you hadn't noticed, down here."

"Exactly my point," DeWitt said. "You're too curious. Too clever. And too frequently overconfident. I must insist, for the safety of my Active -- for the safety of everyone -- that if you notice even the slightest deviation in Yankee's behavior, you bring him back to the Dollhouse immediately. I want your solemn word."

"Yankee isn't your Active," Sam said. "He's mine."  


***

Even so, Sam found it tough to watch Yankee in the chair, his spine arching, teeth clenched against a cry of pain, as electricity lanced through him.

"Don't worry," Topher said. "He won't remember. Anyway, this is the easy part."

Yankee gasped, and collapsed in the chair, sweat beaded along his hairline. Topher hit a few keys on the keyboard, then nodded to Sam.

"You're on."

Sam laid her hand over Yankee's. The Active opened his eyes. For a moment, he looked disoriented, and then his gaze found Sam's.

Topher said, "Yankee, I'd like you to meet your new handler. Her name is Sam."

Yankee said, "Sam is short for Samantha."

Sam smiled down at him. She glanced at the short typescript, then back at Yankee's face. "Everything's going to be all right."

"Now that you're here," Yankee responded.

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life."  


***

Sam was right. She knew she would be. She'd hoped and prayed she would be. She knew Daniel. She'd worked shoulder to shoulder with him for years. It didn't matter that Shifu had given him this terrible gift of Goa'uld knowledge.  
Deep down, Daniel was still the same Daniel.

He knew all about Mitchell fighting in the Battle of Kansas, of course. Mitchell freely admitted he'd made the wrong choice. Mitchell was a practical guy. He knew what side his bread was buttered on. Daniel liked him almost right away.

It didn't hurt that the two men looked alike, same height, same coloring and build. Sam hadn't planned that. It was a gift. Her gift. Daniel must have loved looking at his second self, just like Narcissus gazing down into still water. The perfect soldier. Perfectly smart, perfectly motivated, perfectly heroic, perfectly loyal. Sam wasn't positive, and she was hesitant to ask Yankee... but she thought maybe Daniel liked Mitchell even more than she had planned.  


***

They were out on the back deck of Daniel's mansion, drinking beers and enjoying the sunset, when Cam's cell phone rang. Both of them looked surprised. Cam's phone never rang, unless it was Daniel calling.

"Who is that?" Daniel said sharply, even before Cam poked a hand into the pocket of his jeans.

"Dunno," Cam replied. "Maybe I forgot to pay the cable bill."

Daniel smiled thinly, and took another sip of his beer.

Cam flipped his phone open. "Hullo?"

"We have an old fashioned tomato..." said a female voice. Cam straightened in his chair as he recognized the voice of his handler. "...a Long Island potato."

Daniel's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"

Samantha added, "But yes, we have no bananas."

"We have no bananas today," finished Cam.

Daniel stared at him, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.

Cam flipped his phone closed, and placed it gently on the table. As the Goa'uld Active inside of him awoke, Yankee's blue eyes flared white. Daniel scrambled out of his chair, knocking over his beer. The bottle smashed on the deck, and Guinness foamed over the stones.

"Daniel Jackson," said the thing inside of Yankee. "Pleased to meet you."

"Who -- who _are_ you?" Daniel stammered. "Tell me! Which one? Which god?"

Mischief touched the Goa'uld's glowing eyes. It grinned. "Hope you guess my name."

***


End file.
